


But we bear their iniquities

by MagicalDragon



Series: Elysium [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, Past Abuse, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24314383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicalDragon/pseuds/MagicalDragon
Summary: After Christmas, Lesgle and Combeferre share a moment of solidarity.Takes place between chapter 11 and 12 ofOn the Path to Elysium.
Relationships: Combeferre & Bossuet Laigle
Series: Elysium [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1755289
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	But we bear their iniquities

Lesgle had only been back in Paris for a single night, when he one morning on his way to eat breakfast at the Café Musain found that his wallet had been stolen. He did not know for sure that it had been stolen from his pocket  — knowing his luck he might simply have dropped it, but knowing Paris, that also meant that however it had come to be so, it was now stolen. Still, he found some change in another pocket and continued on his way quite undeterred. He did managed to get wet feet, but when he arrived, the Café Musain was warm and welcoming as ever.

Though plagued by rotten luck as he had been for much of the morning, it was perhaps lucky that Combeferre was the first of his friends he ran into after his return to the city. He entered the café when Lesgle had almost finished his breakfast, looking cold and windswept, and only spotted Lesgle after he was called over. He sat down with a grateful smile. After he had placed his order, he turned to Lesgle and asked:

“Did you have a pleasant Christmas?” 

Lesgle pulled a face. 

“Or… not?”

Lesgle sighed heavily. An unavoidable subject, yet one he wanted to avoid all the same. Although, perhaps… 

"Did you know your mother?" he asked Combeferre bluntly. "I... assume it was your mother."

Combeferre looked at him for a bit. He seemed surprised by the line of questioning  — they had rarely acknowledged their commonality, at least not so very directly. 

"It was," he said slowly. "And only a little. Both my parents died when I was young; I was raised by my grandparents."

Lesgle hummed a bit, looking down at his coffee. 

“My mother was afraid of my father,” he said after a while, still considering the swirling brown liquid in his cup. “I remember how she would tense up, when he came near. I do not recall much of her, but that I do remember... and I wonder, sometimes, what my life would have been like, if my father had had any legitimate sons.”

Lesgle didn’t look up, but he could feel Combeferre’s look all the same. 

“Do you believe he wouldn’t have legitimised you?”

Lesgle frowned down at his coffee and finally took a sip. 

“I don’t know. That’s what frightens me. He always showed me some affection, even if it were mixed in with… amusement, or...” Lesgle didn’t finish his sentence, merely frowned. 

“I think I know what you mean,” Combeferre said quietly. And well, he would, wouldn’t he? 

“His wife never liked it, though,” Lesgle continues. “I don’t believe he would have defied her so, if not to have a son. She taught my sisters to hate me… The youngest defies her, but the oldest…” 

Lesgle shook his head and took another sip of his coffee. The oldest sister was thankfully married off, but Mme Lesgle had been sure to treat him with enough coldness for the both of them. The younger sister had shown polite interest in his life, but little else, whereas his father was beginning to tire of him dallying in his studies. Besides, lately Lesgle had been thinking of the scared look that would always come over his mother whenever his father had approached them. How rigid she would go beside him. How, when Lesgle had been taken away from her, she hadn’t protested, merely cried. 

“Forget that slave woman, Mme Lesgle is your mother now,” his father had told him after he had been taken from Martinique to France, understanding so very little of what was happening. His mother had died a few years later, if Lesgle’s sources were to be trusted. The little slave-run workshop had gotten new owners by the time Lesgle had been old enough to get a letter to Martinique which cast some doubt over things. His father had sold it to pay for his post directorship and moving the family to Meaux. Lesgle still had some vague plan of going back to Martinique some day, but he wasn’t sure what he’d do if he actually got there. Try to learn more of his mother? Join whatever revolutionary movement was sure to be brewing somewhere on the island? He may have been born there, but he didn’t know the place. 

“I’m sorry,” Combeferre said. Then, going for humor: “It seems you have always been unlucky, Bossuet.” 

Lesgle smiled ruefully. 

“Really? I was almost a slave and I am free. Most would call that luck.” 

“Indeed,” Combeferre granted. “But are any of us really lucky? Our friends do not have these worries.”

Lesgle hummed noncommittally. They were both quiet, for a little while. It was not an easy topic. 

“My mother was a free woman,” Combeferre offered up, his gaze far away. “My father must have been quite taken with her, for I have always been told he wanted to marry her. His parents wouldn't allow it, of course. Less because of her colour and more because of her class, or so they say. I lived with her when I was small until she died of smallpox. My father was an officer in the  _ Emperor’s  _ service, so he took me to his parents for them to raise.”

Combeferre had affected a half-hearted mocking tone when referring to Bonaparte, but otherwise spoke almost tonelessly. He shook his head slightly, then seemed to return to his surrounding. 

“Do you know her family?”

“Only a little. A few letters exchanged with an aunt, that’s all. Yet…” Combeferre looked up and met Lesgle’s eyes. “Perhaps I should not pretend to understand your situation. Mine is easier.”

Lesgle reached across the table to cover Combeferre’s hand with his own, for once seeing a similar tone below it.

“Hush, you understand plenty.”

The uncomfortable silence of having touched on a heavy subject and not knowing how to move on from it settled between them.

"He's ill," Lesgle admitted. “My father.”

Combeferre looked up. 

“Tuberculosis. The doctor’s not sure if he’ll pull through.” 

“I’m sorry,” Combeferre said. 

“Are you?” Lesgle asked as he pulled his hand away, his eyes staring into thin air. “I’m not sure if I should be…” 

Combeferre tapped his arm and waited till they had eye contact before he spoke:

“His sins are real, but they are not yours. It is not wrong to condemn him for them, but neither is it wrong to care for someone. You are allowed your feelings, Lesgle. Whatever they are.”

Lesgle chuckled humorlessly.

“That’s just it. I’m not sure I know  _ what  _ they are.” 

“That’s alright, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Since the next Elysium chapter will be delayed, I thought I'd put this up now! 
> 
> I am not as well-versed in the issues touched on here as I am in the rest of what I use for Elysium. Feel free to school me if I've gotten anything wrong.
> 
> Title from the bible verse: _Our fathers sinned and are no more/But we bear their iniquities._


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